Reflections of Light
by Laura Schiller
Summary: The Cricket on the Hearth. The Peerybingles resolved the problems in their marriage, but what happened between Bertha and Mr. Tackleton?


Reflections of Light

By Laura Schiller

Based on: _The Cricket on the Hearth_

Copyright: Public Domain

"Mr. Tackleton, is that you?"

"How the deuce did you know me?"

Bertha had not really needed to ask. She recognized her employer by the creaking of his boots, by his sigh as he sat in the chair next to hers, and now by his gravelly voice. She knew him by the scents of leather, wood and paint that he carried with him from the toy shop, along with the cologne he had put on only that morning in preparation for a wedding that would never happen. She knew him by all the familiar details she had secretly memorized with so much care over the years.

"I would know you anywhere, sir."

"Would you, though?"

There was an odd, subdued note in Mr. Tackleton's voice that even her fine hearing found it hard to identify. Was he smiling at her foolishness? He sounded … _shy_, but surely that was impossible. Surely the "stern, sordid, grinding man" her father had described to her, in that final confession, would be incapable of shyness.

He cleared his throat. "Listen, Bertha … "

"Yes, sir?"

"I've come to ask you a question … it may sound strange, but it's rather important to me … believe it or not," with a twist of his familiar irony, "I did not join this party for the entertainment."

Bertha smiled wryly, hoping he would see it. Both the Mr. Tackletons she knew – real and imaginary – were uneasy in society, and May and Edward's wedding party was undoubtedly society. If the loud music, the stamp of dancing feet, the cheers and giggles and gossip, the smells of frying food and flowing drink, had made _her _retreat into a quiet corner, what must it be like for someone sighted?

"And yet you seem to be enjoying yourself tonight, sir. Your gifts for May and Edward were most generous." And far too much like one of Caleb's inventions … except that they were real.

"Nonsense. Never mind that!" A rustle of cloth, as if he were shifting in his chair. "It's only … oh, confound it. How do I begin?"

She folded her hands and waited, patience being one of the few things she was rich in.

"Have you ever noticed," he began abruptly, "How that servant girl of the Peerybingles' - "

"Tilly?"

"That's the one – how she parrots random lines of other peoples' conversation to the baby in her charge? A ridiculous habit, and one which ought to be stopped, for no secret is ever safe with that girl in earshot. Never mind. What I meant to say is – you will never guess what words I heard her repeat last night."

Betha felt herself blush, without even knowing why. "Oh, sir – if it is a secret, surely you should keep it so!"

"Hmm. Not this one." Another rustle, and the scuff of chair legs against the carpet. Was there a hint of warmth on her left side? Was he moving closer?

"The words were," a breath in her ear sent a shiver down her spine, "_Your father deceived you from your cradle, only to break your heart at last. _You, er … " Cold air rushed in as he backed away, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that … would you?"

Bertha would have given anything to honestly answer 'no'.

The picnic. Her all-too-obvious mixed feelings about Mr. Tackleton's engagement to May Fielding. Her father's burst of guilt. Her mad secret love for a man who never existed. Tilly Slowboy had betrayed both of their deepest secrets to Mr. Tackleton, without even knowing what they were.

_Oh, God._

Red-hot with humiliation, she jumped out of her chair and stumbled forward, not even caring what or whom she might knock into just as long as she escaped. However, she did not get far. A warm, dry, work-roughened hand closed on her left wrist, not harshly, but with a grip too strong for her to break away.

"Please, sir, let me go!"

"Then it is true." His voice was a thread, almost a whisper, against the background of the ongoing songs and laughter in the next room. "You came to care … for _me_?"

Her arm relaxed in his hold. This was not mockery or triumph, far from it. His emphasis on that last word, as if he found it incredible that anyone could care for him of all people, was enough to make her sightless eyes begin to burn.

"Until your father undeceived you today, of course," he added, bitter and sarcastic once again. "How fortunate for you to have your eyes opened at last – metaphorically speaking, of course." He let go of her wrist, with a little push that clearly told her he wanted her to leave.

He did not seem to realize that twenty-one years of listening to his verbal darts, their edges softened by Caleb's stories behind his back, had made Bertha almost immune to their sting. And now that she had heard him speak in that strange, lonely, almost pleading voice – now that she knew her guardian angel was a man of flesh and blood as flawed as she was – she could not possibly abandon him.

"I do not know whether I shall ever see you clearly, Mr. Tackleton," she said. "You are still, as always, a mystery to me."

"Am I indeed?"

"Yes." She reached out, made contact with his sleeve, and tentatively brushed along it until she found his hand. "If you are truly the … the harsh, unfeeling man I was told of today … "

"Oh, I am." His laugh was as short and dry as wood shavings. "Make no mistake about it."

"Then why did I hear you ask Mary's forgiveness, twice over, for speaking ill of her? Why did you bring these gifts for the wedding party? Why did you dance and laugh with the others as if you truly meant it? And why … " His other hand closed over hers, making it hard for her to thinking clearly. "Why do you touch me like this? These are not the hands of a cruel man."

"Bertha … " He sighed, with what he probably meant to sound like irritation, but was more sadness than anything else. "Poor girl, surely you don't consider _that_ to be a merit? Everyone who knows you treats you with caution, like one of the china dolls in your father's workshop. Your infirmity is of the sort that invites compassion. You have no idea," with a sudden squeeze of her hand along with the rise in his voice, "How much I envy you sometimes!"

"_Envy _me?"

"Oh, yes."The wood-shaving laugh again, daring her absent father and the Peerybingles to take offense on her behalf. He dropped her hand abruptly and began to pace the room. "I envy you. You may be blind, but you are also beautiful, and what's more, you have a devoted father and a swarm of friends to reflect your beauty back to you, better than any mirror. Did they tell you I've a squint in my left eye?"

"No." Caleb had told her that the real Mr. Tackleton was ugly, but none of the details. The thought of the handsome gentleman she had imagined now almost made her want to laugh; it was really quite absurd.

"Well, I do. I was born with it, among other ornamental qualities I don't care to name. And a fine figure I cut among the pretty little toys my parents made. I finally took to carving monsters to keep me company, since nobody else would."

He spoke brusquely, emotionlessly, as if he were talking about the weather – but Bertha caught the impression of far too many years hiding in the workshop: the feel of smooth, perfect doll faces under one's hands; the jeers of other children through the keyhole; the self-disgust that seeped out in the form of sarcasm when he grew older. Had he ever nicknamed himself when he was young, the way she had called herself Blind Bertha to take away the sting when the neighborhood children used it?

"I don't say this to excuse my behavior for all these years, Heaven knows." His steps paused behind her, and she turned to where his face might be. "I despise these people who believe that an unhappy childhood entitles them to every vice under the sun. The plain fact is that I chose to be what I am. Is it too late to choose differently, do you suppose?"

Only yesterday, Bertha would have immediately said no, and urged the questioner to trust in God to show him the right way. She had lived in a simple world then, in which beauty was everywhere, and every flaw as easy to repair as gluing a doll's arm back to its body. But she had heard Mary Peerybingle's description of Caleb, aged and worn by all these years of shielding her from the truth. She loved her father so much more now, with his gray hair, his sackcloth coat and his confession of dishonesty, than she had ever loved the elegant, carefree man he had pretended to be.

Love was not a question of beauty, or even virtue. Love was justified in itself.

"Only you can answer that," she replied to his question.

He made a low humming sound, almost too low to hear over the music.

"But, sir … just now, you told me that the people who love me are my mirrors. If you had such a mirror … someone to reflect your light back to you and make it shine the brighter … someone - someone who loved you without condition … " She faltered and fell silent, feeling the tears run down her blushing cheeks. For just one moment, she desperately longed to have her sight, so that she could take in Mr. Tackleton's expression.

Then, as if he had heard her unspoken thoughts, he gently clasped both her hands and raised them to his face. The skin there, rough with evening stubble, was as hot as hers, and creased with the beginnings of a smile.

"That shed of yours will need refurbishing," he said, his breath brushing her fingertips. "It would never do for my prospective bride and father-in-law to live in such an eyesore."

He couldn't even propose like an ordinary man. But like most things about him that would have driven most women away, it only made Bertha smile.

"Father will be so pleased." She leaned her head against his shoulder, listening for the beat of his heart. "Once he gets over being astonished, of course. After all, he does not know by half what a wicked man you really are."

"And you, my dear, are the most foolish little madwoman who ever taught a sane man wisdom."

She could feel his laugh all the way down to her bones. Little had they known, when he used to call her a candidate for Bedlam, how mistaken they both were!


End file.
